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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24434374">Grayscale</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaladin_x_happiness/pseuds/Kaladin_x_happiness'>Kaladin_x_happiness</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>paint me in the color of your eyes [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dreamer Trilogy - Maggie Stiefvater, Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Depression, F/M, Nothing graphic at all but those are there, Parental Death, is it an artist AU when she was canonically an artist, there is no Hennessy there is only Jordan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:27:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24434374</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaladin_x_happiness/pseuds/Kaladin_x_happiness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Declan finds some happiness, and also Jordan.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jordan/Declan Lynch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>paint me in the color of your eyes [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764601</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>TRC/ CDTH Prompt Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Grayscale</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kevindayprotectionsquad">kevindayprotectionsquad</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Heavily inspired by this art on tumblr:<br/>https://missbliss12.tumblr.com/post/189674057444/jordan-and-declan-inspired-by-the-love-between-a</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jordan was born with the blank eyes of the soulmate-less. They were a little unsettling, but it was a pretty even flip of the coins whether it would happen.  They would color soon. It was just a waiting game. Sure enough, within two months her eyes blazed to life – a fierce gold that shone like the sun, lighting up the world, a fire on a winter night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This was good luck, her mother liked to say. A fiery color for strength. A bright color for happiness. Her father smiled, watching the two of them with his soft teal eyes, as deep as the sea and just as playful in a good mood. Her mother’s eyes were a steady green. It was well known, of course, that your eye color matched the color of your soulmate’s soul, but as souls weren’t visible to the ordinary person it was nearly impossible to tell when you’d met your soulmate. Oh, there were psychics and businesses that claimed to be able to prove a soulmate relationship, and some of them even worked, but they were always suspect. The Hennessys? They knew they were soulmates. They had no proof, but they knew in their hearts. And they were right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the day Jordan’s mother died, her father’s eyes went blank.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was only twelve years old when her world fell apart. She found her mother just a little too early. Just a little too late. Late enough she couldn’t stop it. Early enough to scream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her father’s eyes were the blank white of the soulmate-less, and the tears he shed – that they both shed – were a soft teal, the color of the soul they had lost in their lives.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan was born with astonishingly brilliant eyes. They swirled in shades of pink, never quite holding still. They were vibrant and shining and arresting, demanding attention from anyone who saw them. Because of this, Declan tended to hide them – a shy boy, avoiding attention from stranger, but happy for the most part, if a little lonely. Sometimes he would look in the mirror and wonder about the pink soul.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he was twelve years old, his pink eyes turned gray.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His soulmate was sad, this he knew. He wished he knew why. What could happen to turn their spirit upside down? He tried to ask people about it. He asked his teacher. He asked his mom. His father… wasn’t around to be asked, most of the time. Nobody would give him a straight answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hoped that whatever it was, they would be okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And they were, in time. Declan watched the mirror over the years as his eyes faded from gray to light pink, and light pink to bright. By age 15 the eyes were brilliant and sparkling again, swirling pink and purple, changing slightly from day to day. They had depth to them, now; a hint of darkness that never completely faded, but served to make the brightness that more beautiful. His soulmate was okay. And maybe someday he would be okay, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan resented those golden eyes. Her mother was dead. Her father’s heart was broken. And her heart was broken, too. Those golden eyes were so bright, so happy – her soulmate hadn’t changed at all even though her world had fallen apart. It took a long time to get past that. She moved from day to day in a fog of grief, not seeing the world around her, not caring what would happen next. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Time heals all wounds,</span>
  </em>
  <span> people would say, as if it was any sort of comfort when she was hurting </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But she held on to her father, and they remembered her mother, and they waded through the pain together until each morning became a little brighter, the fog a little less.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her father’s eyes were no longer the soft blue of her mother’s soul. They were blank for 100 days, the pure white of the soulmateless, before the soulmate bond was reclaimed and they became the gray of sadness and grief. His own soul, no longer tied to another. Jordan’s mother was gone, and she always would be – there was no replacement for that, no second soulmate to fill the void. But in that absense there was a freedom, some said. When you knew your soul was not tied to another every love became your own choice. And slowly, as life returned to the Hennessy house, her mother’s green eyes returned – now on her father’s face, his own soul shining through once again. And that was comforting to them. Jordan would see her mother’s eyes every day, shining from her father’s face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took a long time to notice, wrapped up in her grief as she was, but over the years Jordan’s bright yellow eyes started to fade. It didn’t happen all at once, not really. At age twelve, they were as golden as they had ever been. At thirteen, they were still yellow, if not as bright. And Jordan didn’t notice, not for a long time, until she woke up one morning at age fifteen and realized that they’d become a drabby brown.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Is this normal?</span>
  </em>
  <span> She asked everyone she could. Her father didn’t know. Her teacher didn’t know. The librarian didn’t know, but had some books that might tell her. She read and read and read, but still didn’t feel closer to an answer. All she learned was that some change was normal over the years, though the base color tended to remain the same. A shocking change to gray was usually caused by grief. A fading brightness could mean any number of things but was usually accredited to physical illness or depression. But without knowing who her soulmate was, it was nearly impossible to determine the reason.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan watched those eyes and continued to worry. They were almost beige now, a boring color, a dull color, a dead color. What had happened to that golden soul? She hoped that they were okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was not to be, apparently. Jordan was looking in the mirror one morning, wondering about her soulmate, when her eyes suddenly turned gray.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan was seventeen years old when his world fell apart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ronan had found their father in the driveway, already beyond saving, beyond the reach of the ambulance they called for him. His mother fell apart, nearly comatose with grief. Ronan, showing his pain through anger. Little Matthew the only one able to cry, eyes filled with blood-red tears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aurora’s eyes were still sky blue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan couldn’t let himself cry. It wasn’t fair. Not to him, not to his parents, not to his brothers, not to the woman half a world away who woke with blank eyes that morning. None of it was fair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, as his favorite movie said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>life isn’t fair, and anyone telling you differently is selling something.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And just like that, Declan became the adult of the house, filling in for his father and his mother both. He took up the reigns of the family business; he hated it, had hated it ever since Niall had first introduced him to the corporate world, but he’d been training for this since age thirteen. Niall had planned for Declan to get a business degree and then take over the corporation. It didn’t matter what Declan wanted. It only mattered what was expected. He was only seventeen, but he did the best he could, and luckily for him the manager was a good person. The business was running, their family had enough money to live, and the illegal business deals that killed Niall died with him. Declan pushed through what remained of high school, cared for his mother, and fought with Ronan more often than he’d like to, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>he was trying so hard.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hoped it was enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was never enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan watched her eyes for years, waiting for the gray to fade to a happier color.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It never did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan was twenty years old and finally sitting in a true college classroom for the first time in his life. He’d done online college for two years, somehow balancing schoolwork with business and caring for his family, but things were stabilizing. His mother had healed, as much as she probably ever would, and she could at least care for Matthew. Ronan was – technically – a legal adult, and Declan had decided that his brother’s shenanigans were no longer his concern. Ronan was happy running the Barns and surprisingly competent at it, so Declan had finally felt confident enough in his family’s situation to leave the house and attend college on campus. If he worked hard, he was set to graduate in two years with a Business Management degree, and possibly have an MBA a year after that. He could have the family company thriving and growing, not just surviving. He hated it, but he’d accepted it as his fate, now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet somehow, despite all his hard work and obsessive organization, he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>completely overlooked</span>
  </em>
  <span> the fact that he needed to fill some general education requirements. Which is why he was now sitting in a lecture hall in the art building, flipping through his notebooks as the moldy old professor attempted to start up the projector.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d always loved art. Sometimes his father would bring small paintings and photos back from his trips, and Declan would post them up on his walls. He’d dream of being a famous painter, color dripping from his brush, standing in front of his latest masterpiece. He’d dream of sculpting, of photography, of ceramics. All of it was precious to him. All of it was beauty. All of it was art.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those dreams had shriveled as he had been steered into the family business and the soul-sucking corporate world. Declan had worked to try to enjoy it, to make himself into the kind of person who </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> enjoy it, but instead he’d always felt the absense of the art he loved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, if he absolutely had to take an unnecessary class, art history would be just fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan looked around the classroom while the teacher struggled with the projector. She’d been doing part-time school for the last two years, working as hard as she could to try to pay her own way so her father wouldn’t be burdened with the cost. He’d never been to college, and neither had her mother, but he was so very proud when Jordan’s application was accepted. He even encouraged her to study art, as her mother had always wished to. But even with all his support, college was expensive, and money had always been tight in their house. Not painfully so, but Jordan knew well that college was beyond what they could afford. And so, she took it slowly, working whatever jobs would work around her schedule, doing online classes when she could and half-semesters when she couldn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a long, slow, but mostly rewarding process. It was also the reason why, two years into college, she was only just now taking a freshman art history class.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the rest of class was definitely full of freshmen. They all looked a little lost, a little nervous, a little excited. Like they didn’t know what they were doing, but were sure it was going to be fun. Like they didn’t know how rough the world was, and how much hard work was needed for anything worthwhile. They were chatting excitedly with each other as a kid in the front row did their best to guide the old professor through the maze of modern technology. There was only one other beside her that didn’t seem to fit in – a boy in the back with curly brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and mirrored glasses to hide his eyes. He was wearing a suit, the kind that looked copied-and-pasted from the corporate guidebook. Probably a soulless business major.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She put him out of her mind as the class finally started, diving into the Renaissance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan wandered the halls at the art museum that Thursday, looking for a spark to keep him going. Just one little spark of beauty to light up his soul. He found it in an unexpected corner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A girl was sitting at an easel in the Picasso section, painting a copy of Girl with Mandolin. He watched her paint, brush moving with a surety, a confidence; brow furrowed in concentration, as if only the art in front of her mattered. He recognised her fluffy brown ponytail and the band of flowers around her neck, but where was she from… ah, yes, the art history class. She did look like a stereotypical art student, even without the paints: colorful, stylish clothes with just a hint of eccentricity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan let himself feel the wave of jealousy for just a moment before he let it go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He continued to watch her for longer than he probably should have, because finally the painting was finished, and she put the brush down. Then she turned, and saw him, and raised an eyebrow. “How long have you been watching me, exactly?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan flushed, embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, its just – your painting, it’s very good,” he stammered. “You’re very talented. You should be doing originals.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiled sadly. “Originals are for people who are brave. Thank you for the compliment, though.” She stuck out a paint-covered hand. “Jordan Hennessy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shook her hand. “Declan Lynch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re in my art history class.” She began putting away paints and dismantling her easel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, well, yes, yes I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan put the last of her stuff in her bag and swung it over her shoulder. “Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget the reading!” She strode purposefully away, and Declan watched her go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They ran into each other nearly every week after that. Always on Thursday nights. Always in the art museum. Always in the same scenario.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One week Jordan was studying Le Chat Aux Poissons Rouge when the strange suited boy appeared at her side. “I’ve never much cared for this one,” he said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It doesn’t seem to match your aesthetic,” she noted. “You’ve got the soul-sucking corporate thing going on.” He laughed. “You probably like hyper-realism or nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not that,” he replied. “It’s the fish.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The fish?” Jordan raised an eyebrow and continued to paint, not looking at the handsome boy in the mirrored glasses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They seem so trapped in there, don’t they?” His voice was quiet. “The water is green. The tank is too small for them to swim. And above them is death.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan pondered this for awhile. “I like this painting,” she told him. “I find the vibrant colors exciting. It feels like life was poured into this painting, too much for the picture, and it warped the colors.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did it warp the fish bowl as well?” he asked with an audible smirk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, but perhaps it warped your brain,” she retorted, and he walked away with a laugh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next week Declan found her sitting in front of Composition A by Piet Mondrian. “I wouldn’t have picked this one for you,” he observed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t look at him, focusing on her canvas as if nothing else in the world mattered. “Which is why I’m here, I suppose, but I am curious why you would say that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He watched her paint, beauty and grace and flowing lines. “It’s too rigid for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She raised an eyebrow and looked at him for a second. “How so?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan gestured to the painting. “It is all lines and boxes, solid flat colors. Not an organic curve within it. You, on the other hand –“ he broke off, pausing to choose his words carefully. “You have life in you,” he finally said. “Mondrian does not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiled. “It does seem like art that a computer would make, doesn’t it?” He nodded. “I’m here to practice precision. It’s not one of my talents. I prefer organic drawings and paintings. They don’t need to be precise – can’t be precise, if they’re to be believed. But a true artist needs to master many tools so she can pick the right one for the job.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan was studying Van Gogh when he appeared the next Thursday, steady as clockwork. “What brings you to the museum this time every week?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugged, just visible in the corner of her eye. “It’s the only time I have that I can come,” he replied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m pretty sure museum attendance is only required once for the class,” she said. “Why do you keep coming?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The silence stretched so long that she turned to make sure he was still there. She studied him, handsome face, perfect curls, eyes still hidden behind those mirrored glasses. He took a deep breath as if steeling himself. “Art is the highlight of my life,” he finally answered. A simple statement, one that was possibly true for everyone in the world, but she saw his sincerity, the way he tried to hide himself behind the suit as soon as the words came out of his mouth. She could leave it at that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nodded and turned back to her painting, arranging her paints just right. “Have I told you why I love this one?” He shook his head. “Three Sunflowers in a Vase. It was a favorite of my mother’s.” She applied the blue, laying out the backdrop. “She loved Van Gogh, loved sunflowers, and most of all she loved three very specific colors.” She paused in her speech to work around a detail. “The light blue was the color of my father’s eyes. The green was her own. The yellow- the yellow was mine” she said, throat tightening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turned to him and let him study her eyes. “This painting reminds me of when life was simpler,” she said softly. “My father’s eyes are green now, and mine- well. They’ve been gray for years.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He studied them a moment more. “They’re not entirely gray now, not anymore,” he said. “They’ve got a hint of yellow to them now.” He smiled, but sadly. “How old were you when your mother died?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was twelve,” she said. And narrowed her eyes. “You’re quite clever to pick that up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugged. “I did a lot of research on soulmates the first time my eyes went gray,” he said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiled and turned back to her painting. “I did the same thing, except mine turned brown before they turned gray.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And they started off yellow? Your soulmate must have had a hard life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Must have,” she agreed softly. “I hope they start doing better soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope so too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next week Declan found her in front of a painting he didn’t recognize. “The Charm of Loneliness,” he read.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“By Leonid Afremov,” she replied. “This is a favorite of mine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s quite beautiful,” he agreed. “Why do you like this one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love all his paintings. They’re so vibrant and colorful and bright.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Like you.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I agree, but I think the title is a misnomer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turned her head to look at him, twisting the flowers on her neck. “Why is that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Loneliness isn’t charming,” he said, turning back to the painting. “It isn’t charming, or vibrant, or colorful. It is empty and blank and gray and </span>
  <em>
    <span>painful.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes bored into his soul. “You’ve been lonely a long time, haven’t you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He watched as she picked up her palette knife and began her process of creation and replication. “I was lonely once,” she told him. “Still am, sometimes. Art… art helps. It fills me in a way that nothing else can.” Her words paused as she focused on the bench, and then continued. “My mother was an artist. I loved to paint with her. When she died…” She paused. “When she died, I was the loneliest I’d ever been. It took a long time to pick up a brush again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I did.” She continued to paint. “What did you love, when you were lonely?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan sighed. “I never really found anything,” he admitted. “I wanted to be an artist, when I was very young. But my dad wanted me to take over the family business when I got older, and so he had me take up projects and hobbies that would prepare me for that. I didn’t like it, but I had to do it, so I did. And the longer I spent away from art, the lonelier I felt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well that was terrible of him!” Jordan snapped, eyes blazing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was necessary,” Declan shrugged. “And it worked out for the best. I knew enough to take it up when he died.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, that’s awful,” she said. “How old were you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seventeen.” She gave him a strange look, but he continued. “He was killed outside our house, probably because of some shady business deal or another. My brother Ronan found the body.” She gasped. “I managed to take over the family business, help the manager out with things that needed done.” Declan smiled. “I was lucky. He’s a good guy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Could your mother have taken it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. She was almost comatose with grief for a long time.” He sighed. “At least she’s doing better now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you doing better?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess so. I was able to come to college, at least. Why do you ask?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s hard to lose a parent. It tears your world apart. I know how it is.” She picked up her knife, but asked him one last question before painting again. “Are you happy now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan considered the question before replying. “I’m not happy, not really. But I think I’m getting there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan couldn’t forget that conversation. It had stirred old memories that wouldn’t leave his mind, old dreams of creation and fulfillment that had never panned out. He believed, once, that his existence would add something to the world. Maybe a painting. Maybe a song. Anything that was bright and beautiful, anything that would make somebody feel. Just one thing would be enough. Instead he was running a soul-sucking corporation, feeding on the dreams of others. Even Ronan was adding more light and beauty to the world than he was, and oh, didn’t that just </span>
  <em>
    <span>sting.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But expectations were still expectations, even if the originator was dead, because those expectations had been drilled into his very soul.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet he couldn’t forget that once it had been different. Once, he had been free. And now, he had more freedom than he had had in seven years. He should use it while he can.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Art requires a soul. Art requires originality. Art requires creativity. All of these things Declan had twisted in his soul over the years; warped them, repurposed them into weapons. He didn’t think he could turn them back to art. Not yet, anyway. But he did still have one skill - one thing that was never taken from him. Declan had a knack for appreciating beauty in the world around him, even when others did not see it there. Perhaps he could use that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan pulled out his laptop and started looking up good photography equipment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*** </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan was sitting in front of The Concert by Leonora Carrington when she saw him next. It was about halfway through the semester now, with midterms just around the corner, and their conversations in the art museum were the highlight of her week. She found herself looking forward to them more than she had expected of herself. Was it strange to think of this boy with the hidden eyes as one of her dearest friends? They only saw each other four times a week, and they only talked during one of those.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then again, the depth of the conversations really made up for the lack of quantity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you think of this one?” he asked, pushing his mirrored glasses back up onto his nose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It reminds me of a weird dream,” she said frankly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckled. “That’s probably why the style is called Surrealism.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She gave him an appreciative look. “Someone has been paying attention in class.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugged. “Of course I’m paying attention. It’s the most interesting class I have.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Further proof of your soul-sucking business major,” she said wryly. “Only accounting is more boring than history.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed humorlessly. “I don’t like it either, but I’m still the only person who can run the business, and someone has to keep the family fed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan nodded. She understood that in her tired working bones. “Your brothers could still help, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Matthew is too young, and as much as I hate to admit it, Ronan is more than pulling his weight as it is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why the hesitation?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>And the grimace.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, we fight a lot,” he admitted. “Ronan’s kind of… reckless. He’s finally away from his old friends and their drugs, but he still gets in trouble somehow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s still pulling his weight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan smiled. “It turns out, he really likes farming. And is much better at it than I will ever be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan shrugged and turned back to her painting. “To each their own. You know, I always wanted a sibling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think a fistfight or two would have changed your mind,” he said with a grin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughed. “Maybe. But I was pretty lonely, as a kid. I used to imagine I had a sister. A twin, maybe. Heh. It was kind of silly.” She grinned. “I pretended that we were both named Jordan, and so she just went by Hennessy. She’d always be there with me, and together we would do amazing things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Siblings can be nice, if you get along with them,” he said. “Ronan and I never have, and even Matthew has been hard since Dad died.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well of course it's hard for them,” Jordan deadpanned. “He was gone. Your mother was all but gone. And then, suddenly, you were the quasi-dad, leaving them without their brother too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I never thought about it like that,” he said, surprised. He thought about it for a bit. “Maybe it’s time to be a brother again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*** </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan’s photography equipment arrived by mail the next week. He pulled the camera out of the box, checking the battery, and allowed the smile to cross his face. He’d spent the week reading the manual and watching tutorial videos in every spare moment. Now, he was ready. He attached the loop to the camera, swung it around his neck like an old tourist, and stepped out into the world to take his first photographs, leaving his mirrored glasses on the nightstand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the other side of campus, Jordan’s eyes were noticeably brighter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*** </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She met him in the museum again the next Thursday, his tall figure appearing in the corner of her eye as it always did. He was unmistakable without her even turning her head. It was the way he stood, the way he walked, that horrible gray suit, all together so stiff and rigid and lifeless that he was almost more a mannequin than a person, sometimes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not copying this week,” he observed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Midterms are over and the quest has changed,” she replied. “Instead of copies, I’m doing originals in the style of the artist.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So the other kind of art forgery, you mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Forgery is only forgery when it is not school-endorsed,” she replied with a laugh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very true.” He paused. “As good as you are at Van Gogh, I still think you should be doing true originals.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan smiled sadly. “I have to, starting next semester, but I am still afraid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She snorted. “Easy to say when you’re not the one learning to put a piece of your soul on canvas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he agreed, “but I’m hoping to catch it in a photograph.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She finally turned and looked at him, and her breath caught in her throat. Declan wasn’t wearing his usual mirrored glasses today, and he had the most stunning eyes she had ever seen. Pink and purple and bright and vibrant, a hypnotic swirl that seemed to drag her in. “You have -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stunning eyes, I know,” he finished. “I get that a lot when I don’t wear the glasses.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re beautiful,” she said sincerely. “Why do you hide them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Too much attention.” He shuffled his feet. “The glasses get me attention too, but people are more subtle about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hurriedly looked away. “Sorry. I’ve just never seen eyes </span>
  <em>
    <span>swirl</span>
  </em>
  <span> before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled. “They’re pretty cool. The color must belong to a beautiful soul.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe you’ll meet them someday.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe you already have.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled and then looked at her more closely. “Maybe you’ll meet your golden soul someday too,” he said. “Weren’t your eyes gray when we met?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, and brown before that. But they’ve been turning slowly yellow over the last few months.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Interesting.” He studied them. “I wouldn’t call them yellow, I think. They’re a true metallic gold now.” He stepped back. “I should leave you to your painting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan sighed. She did need to finish it, and she always loved to paint. But Declan Lynch lingered in her mind long after he left, and her painting was touched with flecks of gold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*** </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next week he managed to get to the art museum just a few minutes before closing. He’d had to meet with the manager of his company, and everything had gone longer than it should have. He’d probably missed his chance to see Jordan now, and he didn’t have time to properly study anything today, but maybe he could do a quick tour of the photography section for some inspiration.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She found him there as he considered a photo of a cityscape. “I didn’t think you were going to come,” she said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Meeting ran long.” He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>so tired.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “What was the inspiration this week?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rembrandt,” she replied. She studied the photo with him. “What brings you to this section of the museum?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got photography equipment two weeks ago,” he said. She looked at him in surprise as he continued. “I wanted to start making art of my own. I understand the mechanics and process of the actual taking of the photos, but now…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now you need inspiration,” she finished.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Exactly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why photography?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugged. “Painting is too messy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughed. “I know you better than that.” She paused. “I think so, anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan laughed. “Ronan believed it easily enough.” He sighed. “Other art requires vision, and I’ve spent too long training myself out of that. Photography… Photography is about appreciating the art in the world around you. I can still do that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan considered it as they walked to the exit, museum closing for the day. “I’ve seen photos that took vision to create, but I think I understand where you are coming from. What have you taken pictures of so far?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lots of buildings. Too many birds, mostly pigeons. My brothers. I can show you pictures of them in class tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And break our unspoken agreement to not acknowledge each other outside of the museum?” Jordan joked.  At his crestfallen expression, “Sorry, sorry! I’d love to talk to you in class! I just never catch you for some reason. You’re always running out the door.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckled. “Sorry about that. Maybe if you weren’t late to class every day you’d see me more.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to run all the way across campus!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excuses, excuses,” he teased. “I’ll stick around after class tomorrow for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll be there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He did show her his photos after class the next day, the two of them pouring over his laptop in the cafeteria. She’d asked why he was always running out the door, and it turned out it was so he could squeeze in lunch before his class. So she’d simply followed him and gotten her lunch early, to eat with him. He was quite right about his photos. There were entirely too many birds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pointed out a picture of a boy. He was shirtless, back to the camera, showing off a truly impressive tattoo. He was holding a raven on his arm and had turned his head to look at it. The picture had been taken in dry grass on a cloudy day, the muted lighting and backdrop highlighting the only point of color in the picture - Ronan’s vividly forest green eyes. “Isn’t this the brother you had a fistfight with?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Multiple times,” Declan said dryly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He looks like he could take you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey!” Jordan gave him a no-nonsense look. “He did,” Declan muttered, “but I don’t have to admit it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughed and continued, flipping to a photo of a boy running through a field, golden hair sparkling in the sunshine and blue eyes shining. “Oh, he’s adorable. This is Matthew? He looks like a literal ray of sunshine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He really is. He’s almost too happy to be real, sometimes.” That was said with just a hint of jealousy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan continued to flip through the photos. “All of your best ones are of people,” she said. “I don’t know your brothers, but you seem to have a knack for capturing their personalities in a single photo.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well thank you,” he said with a smile. “I wish I got to visit them more. We had a good time this last weekend. That’s rare.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds nice,” Jordan said wistfully. Then back to business. “Do you have any friends around here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just one. Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should ask them if you can practice taking their picture.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked at her for a moment and shook his head as if exasperated. “Jordan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I take your picture?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jordan blinked. “You said… </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Of course, you can take my picture.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On one condition. I get to paint you. Deal?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You want to paint me?” He was flabbergasted. “Sure, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can be the first Jordan Hennessy original.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*** </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <span>Epilogue - 6 months later</span>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Declan and Jordan entered the section of the art museum reserved for student exhibits. This week, it was split between a beginners photography course and a more advanced painting class. They’d each told their soulmate story to their professors, and some strings had been pulled so they could be exhibited together in this last week of the semester.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stood hand in hand before their works of art. Declan’s photo was of Hennessy, in greyscale - her sitting on a cliff, looking out over the sea. She looked like an ancient sea spirit, lording over her domain, ruthless and beautiful and loving, all at once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hennessy’s painting was also grayscale, with Declan holding a golden camera. The gold seemed to bleed into him, bringing life back into the photo.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that how you see me?” he whispered. He was viewing this for the first time, just as she was seeing his photo for the first time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Art brought you happiness again,” she said. “It seemed right to show that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you were my happiness,” he joked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re right,” he said softly. “I was drowning in a sea of depression, and you were my lighthouse. You could not save me, but you could show me the way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh that’s just sappy,” she replied, then nodded at the photo. “Is that why you wanted the photos by the sea?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t help it if I’m a hopeless romantic at heart. Plus, you said I had a knack for capturing a personality in a photograph.” He looked at her. “Ruthless, beautiful, strong, capable. I think I nailed it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s close enough,” she said with a smile, and then she kissed him.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Links to the art referenced, for your viewing convenience<br/>Girl with Mandolin, Pablo Picasso<br/>-https://modernism-literature-movement.weebly.com/girl-with-a-mandolin---pablo-picasso.html<br/>Le Chat aux Poissons Rouge, Henry Mattise<br/>-https://www.reproduction-gallery.com/oil-painting/1575218912/le-chat-aux-poissons-rouge-1914-by-henri-matisse/<br/>Composition A, Piet Mondrian<br/>-https://www.wikiart.org/en/piet-mondrian/composition-a-1923<br/>Three Sunflowers In A Vase, Vincent Van Gogh<br/>-https://painting-planet.com/three-sunflowers-in-a-vase-by-vincent-van-gogh/<br/>The Charm of Loneliness, Leonid Afremov<br/>-https://afremov.com/charm-of-loneliness-palette-knife-oil-painting-on-canvas-by-leonid-afremov-size-36-x20.html<br/>The Concert, Leonora Carrington<br/>-I had trouble finding a definite link but it does come up first in the google search</p></blockquote></div></div>
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